


Dark Days Lie Still Before Us

by Sally_the_Sunflower



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Betrayal, Canon-Typical Violence, Dagor Dagorath, Found Family, Multi, Post-Canon, The Silmarils - Freeform, War, everyone is coming back, liberties have been taken with how mandos' prophecy would work, they are still a complete nuisance, we're going on an adventure
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:28:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27331225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sally_the_Sunflower/pseuds/Sally_the_Sunflower
Summary: It has been foretold that a day would come when Morgoth would return through the Door of Night and the World would once again be thrown into chaos and battle before he is finally defeated. Nobody thought it would be quite this soon, nor did anyone expect to see so many familiar faces return for the Battle to end all Battles.
Relationships: Beleg Cúthalion/Túrin Turambar, Eönwë/Sauron | Mairon, Frodo Baggins/Sam Gamgee, Past Celebrimbor/Sauron | Mairon, Past Morgoth Bauglir | Melkor/Sauron | Mairon
Comments: 12
Kudos: 36





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> So, I've been rolling this one around in my head for ages and I've finally decided to bight the bullet and just post it. It's still very much a work in progress though, so you'll have to excuse the incomplete tags. They will be altered as we go, so keep an eye if you need to. I'll notify ye anyway, when it happens. I just want to avoid starting off with a wall of tags!
> 
> Anyway, this is much more ambitious than what I'd normally do, so I'm very excited! and a little nervous!
> 
> Edit 18/11/2020: I've updated the tags. They cover my main ideas now. I'll give warning for any further changes if they happen.

Post War of Wrath 

A sombre silence filled the Máhanaxar, broken only by the gentle weeping of Nienna. They had won. Yet they did not feel like celebrating. The weight of their actions hung heavy in the space between them. Much of the Outer Lands had been destroyed. Who knows how many of the Children had been taken with it? And… _he_ was gone. They should rejoice. But he had been one of their number once or, at least, had perhaps been intended to be. It grieved them that it had come to this. All, except one that is.

“Why do we sit here, as if in mourning? Our foe has been vanquished. No-longer shall he pervert the good of our creations to his evil purpose. This should be a time of feast!” spoke Tulkas, the first to break the silence.

“Feast?” responded Yavanna, incredulous, “Feast?! With all of Beleriand under the sea? By our hand, no less. Pray tell me, dear Tulkas, which of your ‘creations’ did our foe pervert, that you should be so eager to ignore the cost of seeing him gone?”

“Sister please, he did not mean to be insensitive,” said Vána.

Yavanna made to reply, but she was cut off by an almost inaudible order.

“Silence.”

It was the first word Manwë had spoken since he had given the order to imprison his brother in the Void, and it hung heavy in the air between them.

“What is done, is done. We will not start arguing amongst ourselves. Our foe may be vanquished, but much else has been lost besides. This is not a true victory, simply an end.”

“And it is not the full end.”

Even Manwe heaved a tired sigh at the sound of that rarely heard voice.

“Speak, Doomsman, for I know you have more to say.”

“ _When the world is old and the Powers have grown weary, Morgoth, the Black Foe of the World, seeing that the guard sleepeth, shall come back through the Door of the Night out of the Timeless Void; and all shall be darkness, for the sun he will turn to black, and the moon will no longer shed his light. But the Host of Valinor shall descend upon him as a searing flame, white and terrible. Then shall the Last Battle be gathered on the fields of Valinor. In that day, Tulkas shall strive with Morgoth, and on his right hand shall be Eönwë, and on his left Túrin Turambar, son of Húrin, returning from the Doom of Men at the ending of the world; and the black sword of Túrin shall deal unto Morgoth his death and final end._ ”

The other Valar listened intently as Námo continued to speak, of the breaking and remaking of the Earth, of the recovering of the Silmarils, of their being willingly broken, of the rekindling of the trees. Though this prophecy spoke of hurts healed and an Arda renewed, a fear began to settle within those who listened, the fear of what this future may cost. They had already learned that victory was not always sweet and may instead be bitter in its winning. They feared the unknown.

Manwë considered the Doomsman’s words for a moment before speaking.

“I will not pretend to know the Will of The One so clearly as to say confidently that we should not be afraid. I do not know how this great battle will play out. I do not know how it is possible for a Man to return from beyond the circles of the world. I do not know how my brother could ever again have the strength to leave his prison. I do not know what an Arda Healed would look like, nor if either we or the Children would feel it worth the strife that would surely proceed its creation. I do not even know if this prophecy is something that must surely come to pass, or something that we could protect against. This part of His Plan is hidden from me. Yet… though I lack any of the answers, I can feel it in my heart that indeed this is not the end and that dark days lie still before us. This has not been our final parting with my brother.”


	2. Humming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have returned!! There were some Life Events happening, but I'm back writing now that things have settled back down.  
> Anyway, I originally had a bit more of an elaborate plan for this chapter, but since I've taken such a long break I decided to pare it back a bit. Just to get the ball rolling. No harm in keeping it simple!  
> Enjoy!

_Aman, Fifth Age_

It was a time of feast in Aman and the streets of Tirion hummed with activity. It was the final day of spring and everyone was busy with last minute preparations for the night’s festivities to welcome in the first day of summer. The markets were full of stalls selling freshly baked seasonal treats, delicious fruits, fabrics in bright summer colours and jewellery whose designs took their inspiration from the flowers and animals that signified summer’s arrival in Aman. The air was filled with the sounds of chatter and laughter and of feet bustling to-and-fro through the crowds that thronged the way. Anar was borne high in the sky above by Arien and all was as it should be.

These were the kinds of days that Olórin lived for, surrounded by smiling faces and cheerful voices. There were few things he loved more than to wander the crowded streets, investigating stall-owners wares and applauding the singers, dancers, musicians, and storytellers that could be found most everywhere. His favourite pastime, however, on days such as these, was to entertain the little ones who were being dragged from stall to stall by busy parents. He delighted in their squeals of amazement as he brought images of butterflies and birds sparkling into life before them. Yes, this was the kind of day Olórin most loved.

He was just settling in to enjoy a retelling of how Anar and thus, the summer, first came to be when his attention was pulled away by a muttering that rippled through the gathered crowd. Here and there he could see heads pressed together in whispered conversation, and every so often there was a polite attempt at a concealed pointing towards the object of the excitement. Curious, Olórin looked in the direction that the occasional head subtly nodded. There he saw a woman with red curls, another a with dark curls and between them stood a man. It didn’t take Olórin long to identify the cause for all the interest. Though the three linked arms in a supposedly casual, affectionate way, it was clear from the movements of the man that the gesture was more for the support it provided. He walked with the slow, unsteady gait of one trying their best to appear in better condition than they were. His expression looked like that of someone for whom the merriment of the city was a completely foreign concept, one that he had no idea how to interact with. There was no doubting it. He was one of the recently re-housed, a fëa unaccustomed to steering its hröa through the busy streets. But that wasn’t what had the crowd so fascinated. The newly re-housed had become a relatively common sight. No. This was no ordinary Elf. This, the whispers told Olórin, was Lord Celebrimbor of Eregion, newly returned to life.

Though he felt guilty, Olórin couldn’t help but join those who stared at the group as they walked past. He had heard that the Ring-Maker had finally left the halls. He hadn’t expected to see him out and about so soon. Perhaps the two with him, his mother and grandmother Olórin presumed, had felt that the festivities would be good for him. If anything, Olórin thought, he looked overwhelmed by the whole situation.

Feeling it was best to not add to the poor fellow’s stress, Olórin decided to look away and turn his attention back to the storyteller. In fact, he should probably move on before he accidentally caused a scene. He could only imagine how the crowd would stare once they noticed that a Ring-Bearer was around at the same time as the Ring-Maker. Unfortunately, the crowd were more observant than Olórin had initially given them credit for. _Gandalf_ , he heard them whisper. It would definitely be best to get going.

However, it seemed that he was too late in making that decision. The whispers of his presence seemed to have reached the other three. They were looking right at him. One of the women, Nerdanel, Olórin guessed, smiled weakly in his direction. So much for making his escape. It would most certainly be rude to leave now that he had been noticed. Not that the three Elves in question would have minded. No. Judging by the look on their faces, they would have much preferred to have quietly slipped past, as if they and the Maia were nothing to each other. But they and Olórin both knew better. They were in _public._ They had stumbled into a moment of _historical importance_. There was no option to just pretend that they hadn't noticed each other.

Olórin smiled back at the three and made his way towards them, much to the great interest of the surrounding crowd. He sighed inwardly. He had thought that he had very firmly stepped out of the history books by now. Unfortunately, Olórin knew enough of Elves and their love of memory to know that whatever he said in the next few moments would very likely be quoted for centuries to come. Wonderful… _Better make this sound good, Olórin._

* * *

Olórin wasn’t the only one in the Blessed Realm who wasn’t getting to enjoy the festivities. As had been done throughout the long Ages of Morgoth’s imprisonment, two Maiar kept watch at The Door of Night. Well, originally there had been many more. However, as the centuries had gone by the number of guards had dwindled. Not a peep had been heard since The Enemy had been banished to The Void, and he hadn’t exactly been in a particularly strong condition when the had been thrown there. Fear of Morgoth’s return had begun to fade as confidence in his bondage grew.

"It's not fair."

Linrámar looked at her companion.

“Are you still going on about that?”

“Yes! Everyone else is enjoying themselves at the festival and we’re stuck here watching a door!”

Her eyes widened in shock and horror.

“A door? _A door_? Don’t you mean _The_ Door? Do you honestly think it would be a good idea to let The Door of Night unguarded for the sake of some merriment?”

The other Maia’s eye grew equally wide, though his with disbelief.

“Seriously? It’s been Ages since He was locked in the Void! And he was so weak when they threw him in there, is it even possible for Him to get out?”

“Well, do _you_ want to be the one to tell Manwë that the one brief period we dropped our guard was the one time Morgoth chose to make his escape? For all we know, he’s been waiting for just such a time to make his move.

Just then their argument was interrupted by a sound, a soft metallic sound, as of chains in the distance.

The two froze.

There should be no sound here, except that of their own complaints.

“You shouldn't have said that... you’re tempting fate. I just wanted to go for a drink. You’re summoning The Black Foe of the World...”

“Shuuush, don’t say that! I was doing no such thing. The topic is just making us jumpy,” Linrámar wasn't too convinced of her own words, but she said them anyway.

The two eyed the Door warily, a sense of unease settling on them.

“Best to keep an eye though. In case…”

"Yeah... In case."

The two stood in an anxious silence, but to their horror, it didn’t stay silent for long. From behind the Door, the sound of chains came again, and this time it was accompanied by a luxuriously deep voice, humming.

Linrámar’s heart hammered in her chest.

“… I think you should go get Eönwë… Run!”

**Author's Note:**

> *The text of the Second Doom of Mandos is taken from Tolkien's own wording. I'm just quoting it here. 
> 
> (Also, I swear the odd combo of character tags serves a purpose! Just wait!)


End file.
